DON AND BERT AT SCHOOL.
Don Gordon and his brother Hubert were two of the heroes of the _Boy
Trapper_ series. Those who have met them before will not need to be told
what sort of boys they were; and strangers we will leave to do as the
boys of the Bridgeport Academy did—become acquainted with them by
degrees. They lived near the little town of Rochdale, in the State of
Mississippi, where their father owned an extensive cotton plantation.
That was the reason why the students, who had a new name for every
new-comer, called Don the Planter. The last time we spoke of him and
Hubert was in connection with the building of a _Shooting-Box_ on the
site of the one that had been burned by Bob Owens and Lester Brigham. We
then informed the reader that the new structure was much better than the
old one, and that is all we shall say about it until such time as the
owners get ready to take possession of it.
After Bob Owens ran away from home to become a hunter, and Godfrey Evans
and his son Dan went to work to earn an honest living, and David Evans
became _mail carrier_, and Lester Brigham withdrew himself from the
society of the boys in the neighborhood, the inhabitants of Rochdale and
the surrounding country settled back into their old ways, and waited for
something to happen that would create an excitement. They marveled
greatly at the sudden change that had taken place in Godfrey and Dan,
talked of the indomitable courage Bob Owens had displayed on the night
the steamer Sam Kendall was burned, and cast jealous eyes upon David
Evans, who, they thought, was making money a little too rapidly, and
throwing on a few more airs than were becoming in a boy who had a
woodchopper, and a lazy and worthless one at that, for a father.
Rochdale was like some other country towns that you may have heard of.
The people, most of whom had been impoverished by the war, were envious
of one another, though outwardly they were friendly, and all one had to
do to gain enemies was to be successful. If he made money one year by
planting potatoes, when the next season came around everybody planted
potatoes. If he set up a blacksmith shop or opened a store, and seemed
to be prospering, some one was sure to start opposition to him. When
David Evans began riding the mail route for Don Gordon’s father, who had
the contract, and exchanged his rags for warm and durable clothing, and
purchased a fine horse for himself, there were a good many who thought
that he was getting on in the world altogether too fast. His most bitter
enemy was Mr. Owens, who had tried so hard to secure the contract for
his son Bob, the runaway. He generally rode a very dilapidated specimen
of horse-flesh, and whenever David passed him on the road, mounted on
his high-stepping colt, Mr. Owens always felt as though he wanted to
knock him out of his saddle.
“Just look at that beggar on horseback!” he would say to himself.
“Things have come to a pretty pass when white trash like that can hold
their heads so high in the air. If it hadn’t been for him and that
meddlesome Gordon, Bob might have been riding that route now instead of
roaming about the world, nobody knows where. If the opportunity ever
presents itself I’ll get even with both of them for that piece of
business.”
As for Don and Bert, they hardly knew what to do with themselves. Their
private tutor left them—being a Northern man he could not stand the
climate—and then they were as uneasy as fish out of their native
element. They galloped their ponies about the country in search of
adventure, paddled around the lake in their canoe, roamed listlessly
through the woods with their guns in their hands; in short, to quote
from Don, “they became as shiftless and of as little use in the world as
ever Godfrey Evans had been.”
“I don’t at all like this thing,” the general one day said to his wife,
“and there must be a stop put to it. The boys will grow up as ignorant
as the negroes. I shall pack them both off to school.”
Mrs. Gordon thought of the way in which Don had conducted himself at the
last school he attended (he had been expelled from it on account of the
“scrapes” that his inordinate love of mischief brought him into), and
made no reply.
“I have not forgotten that unfortunate occurrence,” said the general,
who well knew what was passing in his wife’s mind. “But I think it was a
lesson to Don, and one that will never fade from his memory. Being
blessed with wonderful health and strength, he is fairly overflowing
with animal spirits, and some of his surplus energy must be worked off
in some way. I’ll put him where he will be held with his nose close to
the grindstone. I’ll send him to Bridgeport.”
“Do you think he can endure the discipline?” asked the anxious mother,
who knew how easily Don could be governed by kindness, and how obstinate
he was under harsh treatment.
“He’ll have to; it is just what he needs. After he has spent six hours
in racking his brain over the hardest kind of problems in mathematics,
and two hours and a half more in handling muskets and broadswords under
the eye of a strict drillmaster, he will feel more like going to bed
than he will like running the guard to eat Cony Ryan’s pancakes and
drink his sour buttermilk. I know, for I have been right there.”
When General Gordon once made up his mind to a course of action he lost
no time in carrying it into effect. Before the week was passed he and
his two boys were on their way to Bridgeport, where they arrived in time
to learn something of the life the students led while they were in camp.
The veteran superintendent welcomed the general as an old friend and
pupil, received him and his boys into his marquee, and took pains to see
that the latter made some agreeable acquaintances among the members of
the first class, who showed them every thing there was to be seen. Bert
did not have much to say, but Don was all enthusiasm.
“That’s the school for me,” said he to his father when they were on
their way to Rochdale, after Don and Bert had passed their examination
and been admitted as members of the academy. “How nicely those fellows
were drilled, and what good-natured gentlemen all the instructors are!
We shall have easy times during the first year. It will seem like play
for me to go back to the beginning of algebra again.”
The general smiled, but said nothing until they reached home and the
boys began to get ready to go back to the academy at the beginning of
the school year. Then he tried to make them understand that “easy times”
were entirely unknown in Bridgeport; that the instructors, although they
were “good-natured” enough to the guests they met while in camp, were
the sternest and most inflexible of disciplinarians in the barracks; and
that there was as wide a gulf between them and the students as there was
between the officers and privates in the army. Somehow Don could not
bring himself to believe it, but before many months more had passed over
his head he found out that his father knew what he was talking about. He
made his mother the most solemn promises in regard to his behavior,
assuring her that he had been in “scrapes” enough, and that henceforth
he would give her and his teachers no trouble; and when he made those
promises he was fully resolved to live up to them. He was then entirely
unacquainted with the temptations that fell to the lot of a Bridgeport
student. Cony Ryan’s pancakes and surreptitious sleigh-rides had no
charms for him, neither had the guard-house and extra duty any terrors,
because he did not know that there were any such things. But they were
soon brought to his notice, and perhaps we shall see how he kept his
promises after that.
The night of the 15th of January found Don and Bert installed in their
room in the academy. It was large enough to accommodate two single beds,
a steam-heater, a washstand, a table, and two chairs. At the foot of
each bed was a small cupboard, in which they were to keep their
uniforms, after they got them, and also their officers’ swords, if they
were fortunate enough to win them at the next examination. Bert was
poring over his French lesson, while Don, who was more than a year ahead
of his class in all his studies, was reading the “Rules and Regulations”
that hung upon the wall. There were fifty rooms on that floor, all
occupied by boys who were supposed to be studying their lessons for the
morrow. The only sound that broke the stillness was a steady tramping in
the hall.
“I wish that fellow, whoever he is, would go into his room and keep
still,” said Bert, after he had waited a long time for the tramping to
cease.
“He’ll not go away until he is relieved,” replied Don. “He is a sentry.
I have just been reading about him. He has charge of all the rooms on
this floor, and it is his duty to suppress all loud talking or laughing,
and to inspect the rooms occasionally to see that the occupants have not
slipped out.”
“Where would they go if they did slip out?” asked Bert.
“I am sure I don’t know,” replied Don, as he walked up to the heater and
held his hands over it. “Neither do I see why one should want to leave a
comfortable room like this to parade around in the deep snow, even if
there _were_ a place to go to pass the evening. It’s fearful cold up
here in this country, isn’t it?”
When Don and Bert left their Southern home the air was balmy, the birds
were singing, a few early flowers were beginning to bud under the genial
influence of the sun, and they earned their overcoats done up in
shawl-straps; but long before they reached their journey’s end they had
put on all their heaviest clothing, and when the train brought them into
Bridgeport they found the streets blocked with snow, and the river
covered with a sheet of ice that was fourteen inches in thickness. The
dreary winter scene that met their gaze every time they looked out of
the academy windows made them shiver involuntarily, and it was no wonder
that they wanted to hug the fire.
“Suppose that sentry should find a room empty when he looked into it?”
said Bert, without replying to his brother’s question. “What then?”
“It would be his duty to report the owners,” said Don.
“That looks almost too much like tale-bearing,” answered Bert. “I don’t
like the idea; do you?”
“No, I don’t; but what is a fellow to do about it? If it ever comes our
turn to stand sentry during study hours, we can take our choice between
doing our full duty, without fear or favor, and being reported and
punished ourselves for negligence. I know what my choice will be. If the
boys don’t want me to report them, they must live up to the
regulations.”
When Don said this he meant every word of it; but after he had been at
the academy a few weeks, Bert noticed that he never gave expression to
such ideas as these. He learned how to keep his back turned toward a
room when he had reason to believe that the owners desired to “take
French” for the evening; and when he was certain that they were out of
harm’s way, he could open the door of that very room, and without much
stretching of his imagination convert the “dummies” that occupied the
beds into living, breathing students. It soon became known to a certain
class of boys that the Planter was a “brick,” who would rather get into
trouble himself than report any of his schoolmates; and they were not
slow to take advantage of his good-nature. That was the term the
students applied to his neglect of duty; but the superintendent called
it disobedience of orders, and Don was punished accordingly.
“What was that noise?” exclaimed Bert, suddenly.
“It sounded like a drum,” answered Don.
And that was just what it was. A couple of drummers were walking around
the building, every now and then giving their instruments a single tap.
“It certainly means something,” said Bert, with no little anxiety in his
tone; “but I am all in the dark.”
So was Don. He was about to propose that they should step out into the
hall and ask the sentry to enlighten them, when the door suddenly opened
and that dreaded functionary thrust his head into the room.
“I say, Plebe,” he exclaimed, nodding to Don, “give us your name, will
you?”
Don wonderingly complied, and the sentry drew a note-book from his
pocket and wrote something in it.
“Very unpleasant piece of business,” said he, “but it can’t be helped.
Orders are orders, as you will find before you have been here a great
while. Next time keep your ears open.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” inquired Don. “Have we done anything wrong?”
“I should say so. Why didn’t you douse your glim? Did you not hear the
signal?”
“We heard a drum, if that’s what you mean,” said Bert.
“That was ‘taps,’ and it meant ‘lights out.’ Put that lamp out at once.”
“We’ll do it just as soon as we get ready for bed,” replied Bert,
jumping up and pulling off his coat.
“Put it out, I tell you,” exclaimed the sentry. “Put it out _now_, and
undress in the dark, as the rest of the fellows do. You had better take
my advice and slumber lightly, for after the morning gun is fired you
will have just six minutes in which to get into your clothes and fall in
for roll-call. Pleasant dreams.”
“Humph!” said Bert, as the sentry closed the door and went out into the
hall to inspect the other rooms. “How can a fellow’s dreams be pleasant
when he knows that he is going to be reported in the morning? This is a
bad beginning, Don. Although we have not been here twenty-four hours, we
have got ourselves into trouble already.”
This reflection worried Bert, who always tried hard to obey the rules of
the school he attended, and considered himself disgraced if he were
taken to task for violating any of them; but it had no more effect upon
Don than water has on a duck’s back. He tumbled into bed and slept
soundly, while Bert, who was very much afraid that he might not hear the
morning gun, lay awake during the greater part of the night. Toward
morning he sank into a troubled slumber, from which the solemn booming
of the field-piece aroused him.
He and Don were out on the floor and putting on their clothes before the
deep-toned reverberations that came from the hills on the other side of
the river had fairly died away. There was no time lost in stretching and
yawning—not a second wasted in waking up. The drums were beating in the
drill-room, and the fifes were shrilly piping forth the first strains of
the three tunes that constituted the morning call. Before the second
tune was finished, Don and Bert, following the lead of the crowd of
students they found in the hall, ran into the drill-room and took their
places in line.
There were four companies in all, each one numbering, when the school
was full, seventy-five members. They were all officered by boys, the
highest in rank being the lieutenant-colonel, while the superintendent
of the academy, or one of the instructors, acted as commandant of the
battalion. The companies were drawn up on the four sides of the spacious
drill-room, in which all the battalion and company exercises and
ceremonies were held during bad weather, the members standing at “parade
rest.” In front of each company stood the upright, soldierly figure of
the first sergeant, note-book in hand. Behind him stood his boy captain,
while the officer of the day, his arms folded across his breast,
critically surveyed the scene from his post near the door. The instant
the last notes of the reveille died away business commenced.
“Attention, company!” shouted all the first sergeants in a breath;
whereupon the students brought their heels in line, dropped their hands
by their side, turned their eyes to the front, and assumed the position
of a soldier.
The roll was called in less than two minutes, and after the first
sergeants had reported to their captains, and the captains had reported
to the adjutant, and the adjutant had reported to the officer of the
day, whose duty it was to report the absentees to the superintendent,
the guards for the day were detailed, the ranks were broken, and the
students hurried away to wash their hands and faces, comb their hair,
and put their rooms in order for morning inspection. After that came two
hours of hard study. Then the sick-call was sounded, followed shortly
afterward by the enlivening strains of “Peas upon the Trencher,” which
was the summons to breakfast. The different companies were marched to
and from the dining-hall by their quartermaster-sergeants, and when the
ranks were broken the students were allowed an hour to “brush up” on
their lessons for the day, or to stroll about the grounds and watch
guard-mount. At nine o’clock the bugle called them to their respective
recitation-rooms, and from that time until one they were kept at work at
their books. After dinner an hour was allowed for rest and recreation.
From two until half-past three there were more recitations, followed by
a long and fatiguing drill, and then liberty until sunset. Then came the
dress-parade of the battalion; and when that was ended the day’s work
was over with everybody except the guards and those who were behind with
their lessons for the next day. After supper and another hour of
recreation, the bugle called “to quarters,” and that was a sound that
nobody liked to hear. It meant that all the fun was over for that day,
that every boy must go to his room at once and keep quiet after he got
there, under penalty of being reported by the sentry who had charge of
that floor.
After this description of the routine of study and drill that was
pursued at the academy, the reader will understand how Don Gordon passed
the most of his school-days during the next four years. How he passed
his vacations it is the purpose of this series of books to relate. It
will be seen also that he was allowed very little time in which to study
up plans for mischief. In fact he did not think of such a thing _yet_,
for he had come there firmly resolved to do his best, and to win a
record for himself that his father should be proud of; but still he did
feel very revengeful while he and his brother were standing in front of
the superintendent’s desk, listening to the sharp reprimand that was
administered to them for neglecting to extinguish their light at taps.
This was the same “good-natured gentleman” who had greeted them and
their father so cordially when they visited his camp during the previous
summer, but he did not talk as he did then. He used cutting words, and
laid down the law in tones that had made more than one culprit tremble.
Don did not mind it in the least, for he was used to being scolded by
his teachers; but when he saw how Bert took it to heart, he became so
angry that he could hardly hold his peace.
“That’s just the kind of a man that I like to get the advantage of,”
said he to himself; “and if I had a few good fellows to help me, I would
set him and his rules at defiance. I just know I could slip out of my
room and get off the grounds at night; and if I had any place to go to
spend the evening, I would try it and see what he would do about it.”
Don made this up all out of his own head. He had never heard of such a
thing as running the guard, and he thought of it now simply as a daring
exploit, and one that he would undertake without a moment’s hesitation
if there were anything to be gained by it. He was in just the right
humor to be manipulated by such fellows as Fisher and Duncan; and into
their hands he fell before he had worn the academy uniform forty-eight
hours. They took him up because they hated him and wanted to get him
into trouble, and it was only by an unexpected stroke of good fortune
that he escaped from their clutches. What he did to arouse their
animosity shall be told further on.